Hello, Again

Chapter 10 (Part 1)

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How long till we call it love?

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As partial to Moments as we are, we often forget that these treacherous beings are hardly all that constitute a memorable life. What linger on the periphery of our memories are conversations - fleeting remnants of an erstwhile desire expressed in sound - and it's easy to forget that they're often what render a moment its true meaning. Conversations can make or break relationships; strengthen, rejuvenate or completely destroy.

Some conversations, however, are mere exchange of words, and all meaning rendered onto them is courtesy of eager hearts beating relentlessly.

...

She watched his fingers, lean and tapered, with callouses on the sides, and for the third time in an hour, suppressed the urge to touch them

Her insides ached at their proximity.

Trying to distract herself, she looked up at him, and found his eyes closed, a half smile on his face. His hair was tousled beautifully from the countless times he'd run his hand through them, and there was a serenity on his features that was infectious.

If she were to follow her heart, Amelia would've rested her head in his lap and drifted into sleep. But Amelia was a logical, practical, sensible girl.

"I'm awake."

She started at this sudden declaration, "Umm -what?"

"I'm awake.", he repeated, opening his eyes and peering at her through honey-blond lashes, his lips pulled up at a corner, "you know, just in case you were wondering."

"It would be awfully rude", she quipped, "but not all that unexpected."

"What do you mean, Amy across the Atlantic?"

"Well, you're already almost dozing off", she replied as coolly as she could, while her heart hammered at the sight of the sunlight falling over half his face, illuminating his chiselled features "I wouldn't put it past you to simply fall asleep."

"I'm not dozing, Amelia," he replied softly, turning his face to look at her, and suddenly she was aware of the mere inches between their faces, the green flecks in his eyes darker in the muted light of the studio.

For the life of her Amelia couldn't fathom in that moment how she'd landed in that situation. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't a very extraordinary moment.

Or perhaps it was.

Amelia didn't have majestic expectations. She didn't expect Sarah to have asked over a friend to crash in the studio storage room and give painting lessons by her side. She didn't expect this friend to be the charming, benevolent man who was currently looking into her eyes. And she certainly didn't expect this man to have found the poem she'd written (and lost) months ago.

But here she was, sitting on the floor beside him, having spent the last hour talking about everything, until they settled into companionable silence, his head resting against the window frame, looking out at the yard, an enviable peacefulness on his face, while she sat beside and tried to connect the dots of the path that her lead to this Moment.

...

Emily resisted the urge to check her phone as it vibrated for the third time in five minutes.

Across the table, Amelia looked up from a sheaf of papers and arched her eyebrow at her.

Emily thanked the stars her phone's ringer wasn't on as usual - Amelia would've killed her.

Eyeing the occupants of the room, Emily let her hand enter her bag as inconspicuously as possible, fishing her phone out, her movements deliberate and cat-like, and balanced it precariously over the bag's white leather, mere inches below the glass top of the conference table.